


The Soulmate of a King (The Rewrite)

by MissWitchy



Series: The Soulmate of a King [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No One Ring, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Murder, Blow Jobs, Canon Timeline does not exist, Dwarf/Hobbit Sex, Empathic Bond, Fluff and Angst, I twisted everything up to fit the story in my head, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Major Character Injury, More tags may be added as we go along, Public Claiming, Public Sex, Soulmate AU, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Telepathic Bond, Thilbo, True Love, Weddings, bagginshield, just go with the flow, so purists please dont kill me, talk of death, there will likely be inaccuracies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 09:16:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2646545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissWitchy/pseuds/MissWitchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>    <img/><br/></p>
</div>Bilbo Baggins, a hobbit, has resigned himself to living his life without the companionship of a Soulmate. But when he is chosen to serve King Thorin Oakenshield, he finally meets the man to whom he will be bonded. Neither, however, are prepared for the consequences of that meeting, nor for the conspiracy brewing in the granite halls of Ered Luin.
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was my NaNoWriMo novel this year and I'm quite proud that I won. Anyway, this story is complete, its just going to take a little while to get it edited and rewritten. 
> 
> This is my first Hobbit Fanfic so go easy on me. :) 
> 
> I want to thank my bestie Cycloudd, for editing this and collaborating with me on it. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!!
> 
>  
> 
> **Ongoing editing, please be patient with me**
> 
> UPDATE: After Chapter 7, there will no longer be a cowriter. I hope that I can give you the rest of the story as well written as the first seven chapters. thanks for all your patience!

 

# Prologue

Merrimac Grubb, Thane of the Shire, wrapped his warm cloak around his shoulders and stepped into the morning light. Though the sun shone brightly, it could not compete with the brisk wind blowing down from the Blue Mountains that forewarned of an early, bitter winter ahead. A fine crust of frost had already been spotted growing along the banks of the Brandywine River, the ill omen such news brought causing a minor panic among his people. If the river froze, the beasts of the wildlands would fall upon them and what livestock the wolves did not get, the Wargs would. There was talk of building a fence, but if the Orcs got it in their brains to taste hobbit-flesh, no fence would keep the monsters from their prize.

Merrimac Grubb was rather attached to his flesh, and the thought of it being digested in the belly of a great ugly orc sent a shiver down his spine. No, being eaten would just not do. Not for a respectable hobbit such as himself! A Took, like as the one making his way up the walk, on the other hand…

He grinned. Wanderlust and adventure was bred into the bones of the Tooks and being gobbled up by an Orc, or a Warg, or even the great winged Fellbeast, would be just the sort of adventure they deserved in his opinion. 

Otho Took bent forward at the waist, bowing to the Thane. His hair was uncombed and his waistcoat was open, and for a man coming to see Merrimac Grubb, he seemed to have gone to great lengths to maintain the appearance of a disreputable hobbit. “Master Grubb,” he said in greeting.

The grin slipped from Merrimac's features. Imagining the gruesome and bloody death of one of his people, deserved though it may be, was impolite when the man himself stood before him. “Otho,” he replied, giving him a nod. “Just tumbled from your bed, I see.”

 “No, I’ve been up for some time,” Otho said.

Merrimac arched an eyebrow and gave a derisive snort. Adventurous and unkempt, hallmarks of the Tooks! Determined to ignore the man, he brushed past him. There were better things to be doing with his time than looking at a disheveled hobbit. At his gate, he turned right. Two steps down the lane and he heard movement beside him. Four steps later, realizing that Otho Took would not be shrugged off so easily, he gave a resigned sigh.

“Was there something you wanted?” Merrimac inquired, his gaze set firmly ahead of him and his pace brisk. Keeping company with a Took was nearly as bad as being a Took, and if they should be happened upon by anyone else, he did not want to give the impression that the two of them were travelling together.

“Aye,” Otho answered.

They carried on a little while longer, Merrimac’s patience growing thinner with each pace. Beside him, Otho Took hummed a merry tune. His lack of concern for either the coming winter and the dangers it brought, or the very obvious intrusion he made in the Thane’s morning, was irritating. Perhaps the Tooks were mentally deficient. That would explain their shortcomings.

When it became obvious to the Thane that Otho would not speak without prompting, the Thane gave a heaving, frustrated sigh. “Well? What is it?”

“Hmm?” Otho replied, a stupid smile on his face. “Oh! Yes. My apologies, Thane. My mind was wandering.”

Of course.

“A troupe of Dwarves has been seen making their way from the East. They’re probably already to Hobbiton,” Otho continued.

Merrimac Grubb tripped over a stone that wasn’t really there, coming to a sudden halt. It took Otho a couple of paces to realize that the Thane had stopped.

“Dwarves?”

“Aye,” Otho replied, turning around and strolling back toward him. “A troupe of them.”

Frost on the Brandywine River, a Took at his doorstep, and now Dwarves tromping through the Shire! It was enough to make a Thane wonder if he hadn’t upset some god to be beset by such misfortune.

“Dwarves,” he said again. “You’re certain? If you’re not, so help me Otho Took, I’ll feed you to the Fellbeast myself!”

Otho tilted his head. “A Fellbeast?” Then his eyes sparkled, “My Lord, Thane! Have you seen one?” He twirled on the spot, craning his neck as though one of the creatures might peek over a hill. “I’d rather not be eaten by one, of course,” he continued, “but to see one! Why, that would be a great adventure indeed!”

“Otho Took!” Merrimac growled.

“Aye,” Otho replied again. “A troupe of them. Probably to Hobbiton by now.”

“Take me!”

* * *

Slightly out of breath, his belly bulging beneath his waistcoat, Thane Merrimac Grubb with Otho Took at his side, was taken up a hillock at the edge of Hobbiton. Merrimac narrowed his eyes, lifting a hand to his brow to shield them from the sun. The sea of long yellow grass in the valley below undulated and rolled beneath the cold breeze, offering up golden stalks to the encampment already erected. Attached to a pole at the top of the largest tent, the royal banner of Thorin Oakenshield fluttered with the pride of its master, though the cloth itself was burned and tattered. Indeed, from what Merrimac could make out, there was much that was burned and tattered. His heart gave a lurch, and for the first time that day, he felt a swelling sense of compassion. This was no military bivouac returning home from a campaign. Indeed, home for these people lay in the opposite direction.

“What misery befell these poor folk?” Merrimac wondered aloud. He turned to Otho Took at his side, clapped him on the shoulder. “Button your waist coat,” he said, “and let us go to greet our guests.”

As hobbits walked, the distance between the hillock and the campsite was not great, yet each step weighed more heavily upon the Thane as they approached, the misfortune of Thorin’s dwarves growing clearer. The soldiers, what few of them there were, leaned heavily on their pikes and upon each other, bearded faces covered by soot and dirt, the miasma of blood and death and destruction hanging off of their shoulders and whispering in their deep voices. Children sat huddled around the low burning fire, tears of fatigue and loss glittering in eyes too young to have seen horror, yet haunted by it just the same; sights echoed in the ghostly images swimming in the gazes of all who looked upon the two hobbits making their way through the camp, to the King’s tent.

A tattooed dwarf stopped them at the entrance with an extended hand, holding himself with an unquestioning authority that made even the Thane feel small.

Merrimac cleared his throat. “I am Merrimac Grubb, Thane of the Shire,” he intoned in his best imitation of regality. “I would speak with your Lord. Please,” he added, his haughty timbre dipping a bit at the last.

Without taking his eyes from either of the hobbits, the tattooed dwarf tilted his head toward the tent. “Sire, there be a couple o’ hobbits wantin’ to see ya.”

“Aye, Dwalin,” a gruff voice called back. “Let them pass.”

The dwarf, Dwalin, thrust out an arm, catching and lifting the canvas. He gave a nod to the hobbits, following their progress inside the king’s tent.

It was a Spartan space for a king, smelling of burned timbers and molten stone. An oil lamp illuminated the interior, smoky yellow light battering itself against the drawn faces around the table with maps spread out on its surface in the middle. The dwarf with the most haggard of those faces looked between the hobbits with the unmistakable gaze of a warrior aristocrat, settling his eyes first on Otho Took, and then on Merrimac.

“We’ve got nothing for you, Thane of the Shire,” he said. “So, state your business and go.”

Merrimac lifted himself to his full height, meeting the dwarf’s steely gaze. “You are Thorin Oakenshield, King of Erebor?”

The dwarf shrugged, reclining against the table and folding his arms. “I am king,” he answered, “Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror.”

“I am Merrimac…”

“Aye, I heard,” Thorin interrupted. “What do you want, hafling?”

Merrimac bristled, puffing out his chest. “You’ve come to me, sir,” he answered. “I rule the Shire.”

The slightest of grins pulled at the corners of the dwarf’s mouth, his companions chuckling darkly in the background. “Of course you do.”

Prideful, arrogant lout! If he couldn’t see a hand of friendship being extended, then there was no point extending it, in Merrimac’s opinion. He made to turn away and stride back to Hobbiton, to issue an edict that no hobbit was to converse with these outsiders, but was stopped by Otho Took stepping forward.

“Excuse me, King Thorin, sir,” he piped up, giving the dwarf the same sort of bow he had delivered to Merrimac earlier. “I’m wondering if you might help the Shire. If you’ll be wintering here, that is.”

The King’s gaze slipped from Merrimac to the hobbit beside him, an eyebrow lifting. “What makes you think we’ll be wintering _here_ , halfling?”

Otho gave a jaunty shrug of the shoulders, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Because, sir, you are the King. And Kings and Thanes know that travel beyond the Shire with winter a stone’s throw away would be suicide. Unless…

“Are you leading your people to suicide, sir?”

The atmosphere in the tent turned heavy, and Merrimac retreated a single step, pulling his cloak tighter around him. All of the dwarves’ humor was sucked out through the door. Of all the things a Took could say!

King Thorin stood, approaching Otho to stand nose to nose with the hobbit. “No.”

“Good!” Otho smiled, taking the King by the shoulders. “Suicide is a horrible way to go. I wouldn’t know myself, of course, but I don’t have to know how to tumble over a cliff to know it’s not healthy for me, either. We Tooks might be a lot of things, but we’re no cliff-tumblers!”

There was a pause and, for an instant, Merrimac wondered if the murder of Otho Took that he had imagined earlier might not happen right there in front of him. Then, the tent erupted with loud, boisterous laughter. The King chucked Otho on the arm, mirth glimmering in the tears at the corners of his eyes.

“That has to be the smartest thing I’ve heard from a hobbit all day!” Thorin said through his chuckles. “Aye, we’ll be wintering here. Then we’ll make our home in the Blue Mountains.” He draped an arm over the hobbit’s shoulder, guiding him to the table. “It will be good to be useful again,” he continued. “What can my people do for yours?”

“We could use a few more blacksmiths,” Otho said.

“We are at your service, my hobbit friend,” King Thorin replied. He turned to Merrimac, startled as though he had forgotten the Thane was still there. “My apologies, sir,” he said. “I’ll discuss this with your man here. No need to concern yourself. I’m sure you’re very busy, ah, ruling the Shire.”

While it was true that Merrimac was a busy man, and ruling the Shire took a lot of work, he couldn’t bear to think what a Took might do if left to negotiate on his own. “I’ll stay, if you don’t mind,” he replied. “My, erm, advisor here might, erm, be mistaken on a few things. I wouldn’t want him to mislead you.” Or, he added silently, lead the Shire down a path of wanton destruction.

Otho looked around. “An advisor? Me?”

“Aye,” Merrimac replied quickly, sidling up to Otho’s left. “The Brandywine River,” he said, changing the subject to cover his companion’s surprise, pointing it out on one of the maps on the table, “there, is our only barrier against the wilderness and the beasts that dwell within it. There are indications it will freeze over this winter.”

King Thorin’s attention fell to the map. “Aye, and beasts there are aplenty too.” He turned his head toward the tent entrance, raising his voice to call out for the dwarf standing guard beyond. “Dwalin!”

The tattooed dwarf entered. “Aye, sire?” he asked with a bow.

“Ready the men for a patrol,” the King ordered. “And schedule a Watch rotation. We’ll be providing our services as soldiers to our new hobbit friends.”

“Of course, sire,” Dwalin replied. “And what payment will they make?”

Thorin smiled, giving Otho Took a shake. “What say you, hobbit? How will you pay?”

Another oblivious shrug accompanied by an equally vacuous grin followed.

“I find,” the King continued, “that these folk entertain me. I’ll accept services for services. The Shire will send me a hobbit oh…every five years or so…and we’ll defend your borders. Does that sound like an adventure you’d like, hobbit?”

Merrimac frowned.

Otho beamed “Adventure? Oh, aye, sir! Aye!”


	2. The Unexpected Summons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little FYI for you lovely readers. this story that you are currently reading is the collaborative rewrite of my 2014 NaNoWriMo novel, hence the addition of my lovely co author and bestie Cycloudd. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy this chapter.
> 
> Thank you to everyone that has left such wonderful comments and for all the heartfelt kudos. They keep us writing!!
> 
> xoxo

#  Chapter One

Bilbo Baggins lay stretched out on a wooden bench outside his _smial_ , knees crooked over the short end, bare feet tapping out a private and leisurely beat on the ground, enjoying the fine spring day. Overhead, white puffy clouds rolled across the deep blue sky, forming amusing and impossible shapes to spark a hobbit’s imagination after a long, cold and dreary winter. In a full, busy apple tree nearby, a flock of starlings shared tawdry jokes with a group of red-breasted robins. Their neighbors, perched in a quaking aspen, got on with the serious business of filling the air with birdish love songs, a chorus of sparrows, cardinals and blue jays accompanying a tune played out by the fiddle legs of early rising crickets and the cheerful hum of the honey bee. Butterflies performed a romantic ballet, dancing among patches of violet morning-glories and pale azure blue-stars, their delicate wings fluttering on a breeze that hugged the green hills. It carried the breath of Bilbo’s waking garden to him, kissing his chest which lay exposed by the open, untied shirt, and tickling the parts of his arms left uncovered by rolled up sleeves.

It was just past elevensies, an relaxing period in the day of a hobbit, when he would give his time, his thoughts, and his love, to his Soulmate. Bilbo shared his time with his pipe, the Old Toby packed down into the bowl, sweet reedy smoke a vaporous plume coiling above him. It made a poor substitute for companionship, but at forty years old and his Soulmate as elusive as a summer snowstorm, he could almost imagine a lover’s gasp in the crackling hiss Old Toby made when Bilbo wrapped his lips around the stem and pulled a draw from it. To give more life to the illusion, he only smoked with his left hand so that he could see his Birthmark, ivy vines wrapping around his arm and wrist in vibrant greens, ending in a fragile blue violet in his palm; leaving his dominant, right hand free for other things. For the moment, he let it stay where it was, reclined against his satisfied stomach, rising and falling beneath his fingertips with each breath. Once his meal of honey-cake and tea had digested, he might return indoors for a while, or work some steam off in the garden. He hadn’t yet made that decision, but whether he pulled the milk-thistle and kings-foil weeds from strangling his roses now, or after lunch, the garden would see him that day.

He took a deep, relaxing puff from his pipe, turned his head while rolling the fumes around his tongue to face the yard and the lane behind his fence. Saccharine gray wisps curled from his nostrils, and when it cleared from his vision, he was treated to the unexpected sight of Andwise Twofoot running as fast as his _fauntling_ legs could carry him in the direction of Bilbo’s gate. The lad’s dark curly hair bobbed and swayed with each loping step, and by the time Bilbo moved to open the gate for him, the boy’s shirt had plastered itself against his sweaty skin and he looked near collapsing.

“Andwise Twofoot,” Bilbo greeted him, tapping out the pipe bowl on a fence post, “catch your breath boy, and tell me what has you so excitable on such a fine day.”

The youth came to a stop outside the gate, hunching forward with hands on knees, midsection expanding and contracting with his rapid pants. He gave an audible swallow and wiped the glistening sheet of moisture from his brow onto the back of his buttercup yellow sleeve.

“Mister Bilbo, sir,” he wheezed, pointing over his shoulder with a thumb, struggling between finding his wind and speech.. He made a raspy, gurgling sound in the back of his throat, and Bilbo took a precautionary step back, fearing the boy might get sick on the stepping stone beneath his feet.

“Easy lad,” he said, “take your time. Come inside for a glass of water.”

Andwise coughed into his fist, shaking his head. “No time,” he said between breaths. “You gotta come quick.” He pulled himself upright, sucking at the air like a fish out of water, breath slowing and evening out. At last, he blew out a huff, lifted rosy cheeks and shimmering brown eyes to Bilbo. “The Thane said to fetch you.”

Bilbo frowned, tucking the pipe into his trouser pocket, looked beyond the boy and down the winding lane. It was no wonder the lad was out of breath if he came all the way from Bilbo’s grandfather’s _smial_. Running at full speed from one side of Hobbiton to the other would take the wind out of anyone!

“What does Gerontius Took want with me?” he asked, gaze slipping back to the boy, who gave him an impressive shrug in reply.

“He just said to fetch you,” Andwise added. “Oh! And for you to hurry.” He lifted a hand to his ear, thrusting a pinky into the canal as he said the last part, twisting and turning the digit, youthful face screwing up into a mask of pained relief.

An unpleasant prickle whispered along the skin at the back of Bilbo’s neck, the honey cake and tea knotting in his tummy and threatening indigestion. To be summoned to the Thane was serious business at any time, but for those summons to come just after elevensies, the matter must be grave indeed!

Andwise Twofoot had extracted his finger, was busy inspecting the content beneath his nail as though he had pulled a treasure from his head. Bilbo lifted his brows in silent admonition and, realizing he’d been caught, the boy hastily wiped his hand on his trousers, and then thrust both fists into his pocket, blushing.

“Tell the Thane I’ll be there shortly,” Bilbo said and made to turn back toward his home.

“But Mister Bilbo, sir!” Andwise started forward, snatching one of Bilbo’s hands and giving his arm a yank. “The Thane said to bring you back straight away!”

Bilbo rooted his feet to the ground, an amused grin lifting the corners of his mouth while the boy pulled at him, his gaze traveling along the twisty Ivy birthmark down his forearm where it linked up to the lad’s Honeysuckle vine just visible on the left wrist. He spied a jasmine leaf twining its way up the boy’s right forearm, and he tugged his limb back to his side.

Andwise toppled backward, arms wind-milling as he tried, and failed, to regain his balance. He landed with a grunt on his backside, kicking up a cloud of dust around him. The dust drifted away on the breeze, and the boy blinked up at him with hurt in his eyes.

A liquid pearl of guilt dropped in the bucket of Bilbo’s heart. He gave a sigh and helped the lad onto his feet, dusting him off. “I’ll be there in a moment,” he said to Andwise, taking him by the shoulders and pointing him down the lane. “I just need to put on my jacket. Now, don’t run too fast, Andwise Twofoot. Save some breath for the rest of us.”

Firmly dismissed, the boy sped off in the direction he had come, Bilbo tracking his progress until he disappeared around a bend. Seeing Andwise’s Soulmark had startled him, made his own right arm feel empty. To come upon one’s Soulmate at such an innocent age…Poor Andwise must have been terrified to feel the mark searing itself into his young flesh; to watch as his own Birthmark was etched out in a mirror image onto the arm of another.

Bilbo crossed beneath the threshold of his hobbit hole, the scent of his pipe smoke lingering at the entrance. He tugged the sleeves of his shirt down both arms without looking, the shameful sight of the unmarked skin on his right limb too unbearable to behold, hitched up his suspenders, and took his jacket from the peg beside the door. The hair on his head and feet combed, properly dressed as a respectable hobbit should be, he set out for the Thane’s home.

The sights and sounds of the Shire pressed themselves upon him, intruding into his dark mood. Bucolic fields, rolling hills, tufts and mounds of vernal delight filled his vision. Gurgling streams and chattering brooks slipped over smooth stones, lapping at grassy shores with brisk, clear water that glittered in the sun and beckoned with the promise of slow swimming carp, shimmering trout, yellow perch and lazy catfish. Hobbit sized ponies pulled hobbit sized plows through rich, loamy earth, guided by hobbit sized youths with hobbit sized girls sprinkling seedlings behind them. Freshly baked gooseberry pies steamed at open windows, set there to cool for lunch and tempting Bilbo with their delectable aromas. Children played chasing games watched over by elder siblings too old to join them but too young for the fields, their parents locked away in private congress. He spied a young couple reclining against the trunk of a stoic old oak, who like Andwise, were still unable to participate in the mature activities between Soulmarked adults, sharing instead the sympathies of emotion carried along their empathic bonds.

A profound sense of loss echoed in the hollow spaces behind his chest, cast a gloomy shadow that depleted the colors of an otherwise bright and cheery day. While his parents had still lived, the space in his heart left open for his Soulmate had never seemed so large. Bungo Baggins and Belladonna Took had more than enough love to share with their unbonded son. But ten years on, no amount of Old Toby smoke, honey cake, tea, or obsessive weeding of the garden could fill the yawing chasm that longed to be taken up by someone Bilbo suspected didn’t really exist; or, if they did, lived so far from the Shire that they might as well have been a ghost.

Beneath his feet, the path shifted from well packed earth to interlocking stones, entering Hobbiton proper. Over the bridge that crossed a tributary of the Brandywine River, looming above the smaller _smials_ and earthen mounds, the Thane’s residence commanded the landscape. Seventy-five years ago, Merrimac Grubb had abdicated his hold over the residence, returning it to its rightful Took stewardship after Bilbo’s great-great-grandfather, Otho the Wise, negotiated with the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains. The Took in him felt great pride in his grandsire’s accomplishment; the Baggins in him balked at the adventure that the Otho had taken, shaming the Took in him.

By the time he reached the Thane’s home, neither of his bloodlines had worked out their arguments with the other, falling silent instead as he passed through the open door.

“Grandfather?” he called out into the peopleless space. A large, round table with thirty-three chairs surrounding its circumference, one for each of the Shire’s cities, occupied the center of a high-ceilinged chamber that reflected Bilbo’s voice back at him to his left. He advanced a few steps, entering the main corridor, highly polished mahogany and chestnut paneled walls closing around him. “Grandfather,” he called out again, “are you here?”

“In here, dear boy,” Gerontius Took’s muffled, wheezy voice replied.

Bilbo hesitated, locking on to the sound and scanning the row of doors for a hint of his grandfather’s location. At the end of the passage, where the walls curved and opened to a lengthwise travelling hallway, the Study’s door stood slightly ajar. Warm golden light flickered from the gap, spilling softly onto the deep burgundy carpet. He straightened his jacket, dusting his travels from his shoulders, and approached, giving the circular doorframe a gentle rap that could have easily been ignored.

His grandfather’s voice replied to the knock with an excited, “Come in, come in!”

He swallowed past a knot in his throat, his shoulders slumping. It was childish, he knew, but he really had hoped that the man wouldn’t hear him. Grandfather to Bilbo he might be, but Gerontius Took was also the Shire’s Thane and, as a boy, Bilbo had seen the oft-forgot about Took temper rear up in him on more than one occasion.

The door creaked on its hinges as he pushed it open. His grandfather was not alone.


	3. No Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who has commented, kudoed, bookmarked and subscribed to this story, it means a lot to me and Cycloudd. 
> 
> We hope you enjoy yet another chapter. We are going to be trying our best to post once a week, so keep your eyes peeled.
> 
>  
> 
> xoxoxo

#  Chapter Two

The Study opened up to him with the comfortable familiarity of two friends meeting for tea, embracing Bilbo with the warm fragrance of the cedar log crackling in the fireplace and kissing him on the cheeks with the musty perfume of the aged books lining the walls. As a youth, he had consumed those books with a ravenous hunger, feeding himself on the histories of the Shire, the hagiographies of Thanes and Mayors, myths, legends and laws.

Sitting behind his desk with the calm, regal authority of his position, Gerontius Took’s grizzled, steel gray hair was bent over a folio that lay open on his desk, busy affixing his signature and seal to the document. He paused only once in his work to lift a hand, waving Bilbo in without raising his gaze.

A heavy ache appeared at the back of Bilbo’s heart at the man’s silent gesture, taking him back to his days as a _fauntling_ denied grandfather’s lap so that one of his cousins with the Took name could sit in the prized place. The door complained beneath his fingertips as he closed it behind him, the hallway beyond shutting out of sight. With the door closed, the space seemed less impressive in its privacy, smaller than could be accounted for by Bilbo’s new, adult perspective of it. He decided, turning around to face Gerontius again, that the lack of space had to do with his grandfather’s guests, a pair of dwarves seated awkwardly in chairs too small for their size.

With their broad backs turned to him, Bilbo could make out only the barest of details about them. One, thinner than the other, had an abundance of reddish brown hair styled to a point in the middle of his head, with twin projections coming out just above the ears, looking very much like the top and arm fins of a fish. The other had almost no hair at all, instead sporting an impressive tattoo on his scalp that had dulled with the passage of time. Both wore plain brown tunics and breeches, the travel cloaks that hung from their shoulders still bearing the traces of a muddy passage in their recent past.

“There,” Gerontius said, his lips curling up into a polite grin. He closed the folio and handed it across the desk to the bald dwarf, who in turn passed it to his companion. “Be sure to thank Thorin for his men’s service to the Shire this last winter. I understand the Fellbeast was quite a trophy to take back to the Blue Mountains.”

“Aye, tha’ it was,” the bald one agreed. “Woulda made yer grandsire a happy man ta see a beastie like tha’ un.”

Bilbo shivered, the thought of seeing one of those great winged horrors sending a jitter down his spine and, for once, the Took in him and the Baggins in him agreed. His ancestor may have been pleased to come across such monsters, but that desire had been bred out of the bloodline in the next generation. His visceral reaction drew Gerontius’ eye to him, and the Thane stood.

“Ah, there you are my boy,” he said to Bilbo. “Come. I’d like you to meet my guests.”

Bilbo bristled at being called a boy. He might be Soulless, having not met his mate, but in every other way, he was most certainly a man. He advanced a few paces into the room, coming to a halt at the side of his grandfather’s desk. The dwarves pushed away from the desk, rising to their feet and locking their thumbs into thick leather belts around their waists.

“This is Dwalin, Captain of King Thorin’s Royal Guard,” Gerontius said, nodding toward the bald one.

The larger of the two, Dwalin held himself with a soldier’s stiffness, pale eyes twinkling with the specter of past battles. His face was drawn into a hard, unsmiling mask, sporting an eagle’s piercing gaze that could spot an ambush or an ally in the distance, and a bushy forked beard streaked with gray.

“And this is the King’s Master Spy, Nori,” his grandfather continued, motioning toward the other.

Thinner than his companion, almost the size of a hobbit, Nori had an air of mischief about him; a cunning sort of aura that was as equally friendly as it was deadly. What Bilbo had initially mistaken as an attempt at styling his hair to mimic the fins of a fish turned out to be instead a cleverly designed, six-pointed star incorporating three plaited sections of a beard that reached to his breast bone.

In unison, the dwarves canted a half bow toward Bilbo. “At your service,” they said together, imitating a politeness that neither wore well, both of them scanning him from head to toe with a quick, appraising glance.

Bilbo’s heart gave an uncomfortable thump that sent a flash of heat up his chest and neck, settling on the apples of his cheeks and the rounded points of his ears. He gave his lips a lick, swallowed to moisten his suddenly parched throat and managed a short bow before his silence dragged out to a rude length.

“Bilbo Baggins, at yours,” he replied.

Dwalin gave a grunt from the back of his throat acknowledging Bilbo’s statement but leaving it uncertain whether he approved of it or found it disappointing. He reclaimed his seat, the thin curling chair legs squeaking beneath his bulk, a sentiment shared by its twin when Nori lowered himself into it.

Bilbo winced, sympathizing with the furniture, the pressure it must feel at having to hold up under the dwarves’ weight. His grandfather really ought to bring in sturdier chairs if he planned on entertaining dwarves; hobbit furniture just wasn’t designed to accommodate them. Gerontius laid a hand on his shoulder, pulling his attention away from that problem.

“Have a seat, Bilbo,” he said, offering him the stubby legged stool reserved for the Thane’s Page and then settled himself into his own cozy arm chair with an aged sigh, resting his forearm on the edge of his desk as he followed Bilbo, studying him in silent, kingly regard.

Small, short, and very hard, the stool made for the perfect sort of seat for a hobbit boy whose duty was to run about delivering the Thane’s messages. The instant Bilbo’s backside came into contact with it he wanted to run too, for as short as it was, he might as well just be sitting on the floor. He wiggled around a moment in search of a comfortable position that never appeared and resolved himself to holding his back in an unnaturally erect posture to keep his view clear of the wrought iron and ebony clock on his grandfather’s desk, looking to the Old Took expectantly.

“How are things at Bag End?” Gerontius began conversationally. “I understand your garden is quite spectacular in the summer.”

“Aye,” Bilbo replied, shifting his weight to one cheek. “Master Gamgee has been a help in that. Since leaving for the farms at Ered Luin, though, I’ve had to care for it myself.”

The air seemed to shift at his mention of the hobbit labor force cultivating the rich soil of the Blue Mountains, taking on a heavy, pregnant stillness that made his stomach feel like it had a loadstone pressing against it. The Thane’s eyes flipped to Bilbo’s right hand, hope flashing in them for a brief instant and then followed immediately by disappointment.

“I’ve been caring for his garden as well,” Bilbo added, tucking his right hand between his legs, blocking it from view. “He’s a good friend and neighbor.”

“That’s a shame,” Gerontius said. “That he hasn’t been available to help in your garden,” he quickly amended, though his words rang tinny and hollow in Bilbo’s ears. What he really meant, Bilbo knew, was that it was a shame that he and Master Gamgee were not bonded; that Bilbo remained Soulless.

The cedar log in the fire popped, a hot ember striking the metal grate with a ping. If Bilbo were a different sort of man, he too might have spat out a bitter coal of anger at the man. His lack of a Soulmate was neither the business of the state, nor the business of the two dwarves sitting across the way from the Thane. The displeasure must have shown on his face, for Gerontius arched an eyebrow, giving Bilbo an imperious look that warned him to keep his tongue in his head. His temper turned poisonous in his veins, spilling out to brush violent red strokes upon his cheeks.

His grandfather changed the topic, relieving some of the tension hanging in the air. “These gentle dwarves,” he said, “have arrived from the Blue Mountains as part of King Thorin’s envoy. Your cousin, Primula, joined them on the journey here.”

Bilbo nodded. The daughter of his aunt Mirabella and her husband, Gorbadoc Brandybuck, Primula knew the pain of being one the Old Took’s grandchildren who didn’t share his name. “I’ll be sure to pay her a visit,” he replied, shifting to the other buttock.

“I’m afraid that visit will have to wait,” Gerontius said. “Primula has just completed her five years of service to King Thorin, and to the hobbit folk that work his land. Per the terms of our agreement, we’ll be sending another member of the Took bloodline in her place. It is a great honor.”

The prickling at the back of Bilbo’s neck reappeared with a vengeance, drawing his hand to it in an unconscious gesture of comfort. He felt his brows pull down, the import of his grandfather’s statement rolling around his head in search of something to connect to. It latched onto the bedtime tales his mother would give to him as a _fauntling,_ of her time spent in service of the great Dwarf King of the Blue Mountains, and then tumbled away toward another memory, of welcoming one of his Mother’s siblings back to the Shire nearly two decades ago.

Realization was slow to come to him, but when it did, it struck with such force that it knocked the wind from him and set his legs in motion. He jumped to his feet, looking between his grandfather and the two dwarves, and then to the door that felt like it was a million leagues away. His grandfather’s Study was no longer a friendly room that evoked memories of childhood. It had become a trap, laid, baited and sprung to capture Bilbo.

“Me? But—but I’m a Baggins!”

Gerontius waved that away with a flick of his wrist and a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. “Don’t hold that against yourself, lad,” he said. “The Bagginses are good folk, never late for tea, and they know their duty to the Shire, just as the Tooks do. Just think of the adventure it will be, Bilbo! Five years away from the shire, and all the sorts of people you’ll meet!” His eyes fell once more to Bilbo’s right hand and wrist, lingered there a moment to impress the significance of the look.

It was that look that reigned in the panic galloping through Bilbo’s chest, forcing him to pause and draw the breath necessary for real thought rather than blind reaction. The dwarves were both on their feet, exchanging dark glances that threatened violence should he try to run. But it was his grandfather’s gaze that kept him still, holding him in place to work out the implication for himself. In all his searching for his One, he had never thought to look beyond the Shire, in the farms and mountain halls of Ered Luin. The permanent population of hobbits there was small, augmented by laborers from the Shire as the need arose, but his Soulmate might be among them.

Bagginses do not leave the Shire! The thought ripped itself from the marrow in his bones with the force of ancient tradition spoken in his father’s voice. It was so ingrained into him, so much a part of his being that his spirit ached at the mere mention of travelling beyond his homeland’s borders. He turned his back to the men, bracing against the mantle above the fireplace, hiding the frustration and the fear swimming in his eyes from view.

The fire’s warmth danced across his face, radiant heat soaking in through the flats of his palms. The flames licking at the cedar log leaped and pirouetted, an erotic display that rose and fell, and rose again in a vision that touched the unexplored membrane of Bilbo’s carnal instincts; a red, pulsing knot deep within him longing to be untied. He heaved a sigh, closing his eyes to watch the light paint crimson brushstrokes upon the canvas of his eyelids, seeking an answer to his problems there.

Five years: an eternity away from his home and his neighbors; from the summer parties and the weddings celebrating yet another pair of Soulmates finding one another; the pitying glances cast in his direction when he sat among the widowed instead of joining the couples dancing beneath an enchanting, star strewn sky.

“I have arrangements to make,” he said, facing the room once more. “And I need to pack. When do I have to be ready?” he added, addressing the dwarves directly.

“We leave a’ first light,” Dwalin answered, his stance relaxing into something less menacing.

Bilbo’s shoulders fell. That didn’t leave him a lot of time to prepare. He thought of asking for an extension, but could already read its denial etched into their features, and nodded. “I’ll be on my way to Bag End, then.”

Nori stepped forward, moving between Bilbo and the door. “Perhaps one of us should join you. A hobbit might lose himself between here and there.”

Indignation sparked along Bilbo’s spine at the man’s innuendo, that he would shirk his responsibilities by fleeing. Dwalin raised a tattooed hand, laid it on Nori’s shoulder and gave it a meaningful squeeze. Bilbo caught sight of the geometric pattern of the dwarf’s Soulmark beneath the ink and saw its mirror image on Nori’s wrist. The symptoms of a telepathic argument played out on the faces of both the men, ended with Nori shrugging off his companions hand and letting go an exasperated sigh.

“We have rooms at the Green Dragon Inn,” he said, his words short and clipped at the edges with irritation. “We leave from there.”


	4. The King's Attendant

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#  Chapter Three

Winter’s icy grip had yet to be thrown completely off of Ered Luin in spite of the cheery, sunshine filled day, reclaiming its hold over the palace at dusk to sneak in through Thorin’s open balcony and dance brisk fingers through the king’s dark hair, finding him sitting upon a wood carved chair that was a throne in all but name. In the stone hewn hearth beside him, the fire sizzled and flared at the breeze, forcing it back one moment and then retreating as a new gust broke through the wall of heat it cast throughout the chamber. A chill shivered beneath Thorin’s robe, swirling around his erect nipples and tickling the fur of his chest. He closed the book laid open on his lap with a thump, casting his eyes first to the losing flames and then the balcony, the wind billowing out the drapes that covered the opening. He let go a resigned sigh and stuffed the book into the chair, stood, and moved to the source of the breeze.

A pair of mated crows that had made their nest above the portico murmured at one another, their voices drifting down to Thorin on the crosswind that carried the odors of cold iron, granite dusk and the ephemeral perfume of a mountain forest into the vespers. The draft gamboled upon his naked torso with an intimate disregard for his comfort or the intrusion it made into his day. He pulled the doors closed, rebuffing the wind’s advances and then further spurned it by sliding the latch into place, shutting out the night until it learned how to behave in a manner befitting the season. His throat was raw enough already from the shouting match between himself and his council without further aggravating it by breathing in frozen air.

The space warmed at once with the squall’s access cut out, but he moved to the fireplace anyway, taking up the poker and thrusting it into the flames to turn a charred log onto its blackened, cracked back, revealing the red glowing underbelly beneath that chased away the remaining chill.

A petitioning knock rapped from the hallway entrance while he turned another log, the sound wanting to echo throughout the chamber but was absorbed instead by the carpet of sheep and bear skin rugs that lay thick upon the stone floor. Thorin’s eyes shifted from the flames to his sword on a table at his left, the naked Mithril blade glittering in the cast-off light. Almost seventy years of living in these quarters, with his safety guaranteed by the armed guard posted outside the door and the short list of visitors they allowed near his rooms, and still he never let his sword wander far from his sight, unable to shrug off the feeling that he was a foreigner in the palace instead of its master.

“Enter!” he called back, twisting the poker in his grip and guiding a half-burned log into the heart of the fire, receiving a belch of pine scented heat in his face for his troubles. Out of view, the door opened and closed again, and when he had satisfied himself that the fire had received the necessary amount of encouragement to continue its battle with the cold, Thorin replaced the tool in its stand and turned to greet his guest.

An elderly dwarf stood framed by the narrow passage between the door and the room. He dipped his head in respect to Thorin, white hair vibrating with the act and standing in sharp relief to the black uniform of his office as Chief Advisor.

Beneath the man’s gaze, he felt suddenly exposed by the open state of his robe, and tied a quick knot in the front, covering his undergarments from view. He forced a pleasant smile onto his face, trying not to think of his younger days when he would run naked through the halls of Erebor, terrorizing the servants with the man chasing behind him. “Balin, my old friend, come in,” he said, gesturing toward the divan across the way from his fireside perch, reclaiming the chair for himself. “I’d offer you something to drink,” he continued, moving his discarded book to the table that held his sword, “but my hobbit has returned to the Shire and I’m sure you heard about what happened with my personal attendant.”

Balin stepped forward with a grave nod, taking the indicated seat and letting out an aged sigh as he settled. “Aye, sire, tha’ I have. Tis a shame he couldn’t be Craftwed, though finding one’s soulmate is a reason for celebration.”

Thorin’s heart gave an uncomfortable tug behind his naked chest, his memories of the dwarf who had been his attendant haunting the space with his absence and threatening to bring the polite aura of the room down around their ears. He took a breath, forcing his sadness into retreat beneath a well-practiced shrug of kingly unconcern.

“The silk didn’t work either?” Balin inquired.

“No, it worked quite well,” Thorin replied, relaxing back into the chair and crossing his legs at the knee. “It dampened the telepathic connection between him and his Soulmate but, in the end, we all agreed that it was too dangerous keeping him in the palace. The Elves along our southern border were kind enough to give him, and his Soulmate, shelter for us; a favor that I have no doubt will come with a high price when they decide to collect on it.”

A shadow crossed the old dwarf’s face, eyes swimming with memories of past betrayals. “Aye,” he said, his tone dark and moody, “of tha’ ye can be sure.”

Trembling silence passed between them at these words, the fire seeming to respond to the melancholic weight in the atmosphere as it guttered and popped, pulling the light closer to the hearth, hugging itself against the spectral miasma radiating from them both.

Another knock at Thorin’s door broke the silence and the shadows. Balin gave his head a clearing shake, pulling himself into an upright posture. Thorin’s gaze passed from his advisor to the source of the sound, and then back to the man. A grin spread across Balin’s face, out of sync with the lingering aftereffects of their maudlin reminiscing.

“Ah good! He’s arrived,” Balin announced. “With yer permission, sire?”

The muscles across Thorin’s shoulders tensed at the prospect of another visitor. Balin was a dear, if at times infuriating friend, who accepted hospitality when it was offered by the king but never offended when it was not; without a servant, he had none to give this new visitor. Yet, Balin expected him, whoever _he_ was, and ignoring the caller would be rude. He would speak with his advisor later about inviting others to the king’s chambers. For now, he nodded, tucking the robe tighter around his chest and shifting his position on the throne-like chair to one of aristocratic nonchalance.

Balin turned his attention to the door, wetting his lips and giving his throat a rough clearing. “Aye, lad, come in,” he said in a voice loud enough to carry across the hall. Thorin winced at the pitch, his ears having soaked in the sedate quietude of his quarters long enough for anything above a normal tone to be painful. His fingers twitched reflexively toward his sword, obeyed his silent command to stay where they were, as the door was opened by one of his guards.

A dwarven youth entered, a silver tray carried between his hands and holding a tea service. He was clothed as a common peasant though his gait bore the unmistakable characteristic of a servant. Thorin’s eyes fell at once to the lad’s closely cropped hair and pitiful beard, both the color of sand and both scandalous in their short length. Neither, however, affected his otherwise remarkable attractiveness. He drew the eye to him as gold draws greed and, like the precious yellow metal, was either unaware of it, or had grown so accustomed to others looking upon him with hungry glances that he no longer noticed. He lifted a pair of sparkling, honey colored eyes to Thorin, flushed, and then settled the tray on a serving table beside the divan, taking an unassuming pose there with his gaze lowered and his hands neatly folded on top of his belt buckle.

Thorin’s lungs burned, reminding him to breath. He released his focus from the stunning sight of the youth, looking to Balin with raised eyebrows, awaiting an explanation.

“Sire,” the advisor began, “I present to you your new attendant.”

The king felt his expression collapse, his brow pinching together and his lips getting heavy, dragging the corners of his mouth down. He glanced once more at the youth, caught him daring to raise his eyes to drink in Thorin’s robed form, and blushing again when he realized he’d been seen, and then turned the full force of his regal glare up his Chief Advisor.

Balin arched an eyebrow, tossing back a quelling stare that had worked on Thorin as a prince and seemed twice as terrifying to him now as a king. Thorin pulled back to mild irritation, gave an inaudible sigh with Balin’s gaze softening. “Let’s have some tea, lad,” he said, and while the youth worked, Thorin listened to his advisor, forcing himself to keep his attention on the man’s bulbous nose instead of the youth’s lithesome figure.

“He’s called Gilium, sire,” Balin explained. “Master Nori approved o’ him and Oin checked him from heel to head. He’s got no Birthmark nor Soulmark, sire, makin’ him perfect ta be yer attendant.”

His advisor paused as the youth presented him with a cup of tea, nodding for him to bring one to the king as well. Gilium returned to the service, placing the herb filled strainer over one of the other cups and then poured a steaming ribbon of water over the leaves. Rather than offering the beverage directly to Thorin as he had done with Balin, he settled the cup and saucer on a stand to the king’s right and then stepped back.

The king followed his movements with a hawkish eye for detail, seeking out the slightest of missteps to refuse accepting him and found none. By all that he had seen so far, Gilium was well trained in serving and, if what Balin said was true, that the youth was Unmarked, then he would indeed be a good fit for the post of Thorin’s attendant.

Balin took a noisy sip of his tea and continued. “He was found by one o’ Nori’s detachments wanderin’ around the foothills, half dead from exposure. Seems he was kept by a band of marauders as…” the old dwarf blushed beneath his beard, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of his knowledge of Gilium’s past, “…as a pet. Entertainmen’ fer his masters.”

Thorin’s eyes narrowed, the idea that any dwarf would be enslaved, and at such a young age too, repugnant to him as both a warrior and a king. He picked up his tea, blowing across the surface, and nodded for Balin to go on.

“When Nori learned tha’ the lad was Unmarked, he had the idea o’ presentin’ him as yer new attendant. If Dwalin hadn’t asked Nori to accompany him to the Shire, he woulda brought the boy to ya himself.”

Thorin sipped. Warm delight rolled over his tongue, the tea’s earthy aroma and woody taste, neither too strong nor too weak, combining on his palate and sending a softening signal to the tension in his shoulders and chest.

“He knows what’ll be required o’ him,” Balin concluded, “and he’s happy to serve ye, sire. If ye’ve no objections, that is.”

Settling the cup onto its companion saucer, Thorin relaxed into the chair, contemplating the offer. Having an attendant again would be a welcome change; servants were seldom allowed within his chambers and then only when he was absent from them, one of the security measures cooked up by the men responsible for his safety. But having gone a month without one, Thorin had found the privacy freeing, even if his bed felt colder without another body lying beside him. He cast an eye to his own Birthmark, traced the geometric pattern of it with the fingers of his unmarked right hand.

“You’re sure he has no marks? I don’t want to send anyone else away with my secrets in their head,” he said to Balin.

The man rose, returning his cup to the service. “See fer yerself, sire,” he replied, giving him a half-bow. “If ye’ll excuse me, my Mate has been waitin’ for me long enough.” With that, he turned from Thorin and the youth, carrying himself back through the chamber door.

Gillium stepped forward, keeping his eyes respectfully down cast as he moved to stand before Thorin. “May I show you, Majesty?” he asked, his tone gentle and mellifluous.

Thorin took up his tea and nodded.


	5. Out of the Shire

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# Chapter Four

It was still dark when Bilbo arrived at the Green Dragon Inn the following day, his pipe clenched between his teeth and his travel pack weighing heavy on his shoulders. Sleep had been an elusive companion to him the previous night, refusing to crawl beneath the warm blankets that covered his bed until it was too late to do him any good. His nerves jangled with each step that took him away from Bag End like a tinker’s cart being pushed along the uneven ground, the hard packed earth and interlocking stones beneath his thick soled feet breathing out night’s chill around his knees. His bare ankles, which had gotten on intimate terms with the cold air his travels kicked up, were particularly grateful when the cozy warmth of the inn wrapped around them as he crossed the threshold and there paused, his gaze falling at once to his travel companions sitting at a table beside the large hearth. Their returning glance in his direction was accompanied by a come-hither wave and an offering of the third, unoccupied chair between them. He sank into the proffered place, sleep deprived body crying out in satisfaction, and slipped the pack from his shoulders.

Spread between the dwarves were bowls of steaming nut porridge and a pewter decanter of mulled wine, the pungent aroma of orange, cinnamon, clove and ginger spice diffusing in the atmosphere like a lullaby. Bilbo blinked back his desire to succumb to the comforting sense of family that the scent evoked in him, taking a long puff of Old Toby to keep his mind occupied with something other than how tired he was.

“Mornin’ lad,” the larger of the two, Dwalin, greeted him in a low but energetic voice. “You’ll have to forgive my companion this mornin’. He had a rough nigh’,” he added, his eyes sparkling with innuendo.

Nori grinned beneath his beard, a mischievous brow arching playfully in Dwalin’s direction as he tipped the contents of his mug into his mouth. Too tired to be shocked and too fatigued to pretend humor, Bilbo dredged up a polite, acknowledging not instead. He leaned forward, folding his arms on the table before him and settled his chin upon them, staring straight ahead to the dancing flames. He felt himself falling into a thought-free trance, watching the hypnotic movements of the fire, its warm yellow glow flickering between the walls.

“No’ a mornin’ person, eh?” Dwalin inquired. He lifted the bowl of porridge to his lips, slurping at in noisily. A stream of cream colored liquid dribbled down the front of his beard, leaving small pearl beads among the hair.

Bilbo sucked a draw from the pipe, inhaled the vapors deep into his lung and held it there a moment while they worked inside him, the smoke’s coiling fingers caressing and soothing his worries. “I didn’t sleep well,” he replied.

Dwalin chuckled, patting him the back with a friendly, calloused hand. It was huge between his shoulders, the dwarf’s thick fingers rolling with each movement. A knot in Bilbo’s stomach uncoiled in response to Dwalin’s touch, releasing the grasp of travel’s tension from him in an instinctive reaction that told him he could trust the man, perhaps even become his friend.

“Tha’ll just make tha ground tha’ much more comfortable tonigh’,” Dwalin said, giving him a final, amiable rub on the back. “Try no’ ta fall asleep in tha saddle, though. Tha ponies don’ like the sound o’ snorin’.”

Bilbo arched an eyebrow, considered protesting that he didn’t snore, and then decided it wasn’t worth the effort. Instead, he pushed himself upright, casting a quick glance to the bar behind him, and the dozy looking hobbit that manned it.

Tom Bracegirdle, owner of the Green Dragon Inn, snorted when Bilbo rapped at the counter to rouse him. He looked up to Bilbo with sleepy eyes, seemed to struggle a moment to remember where he was, and then jumped to his feet.

“Mister Bilbo, sir!” he cried with laughter in his voice. “It’s been a while! What can I do for you?”

“Tea, if you have some, would be nice,” he replied. “I’ve a journey ahead and…”

“A journey?” Tom interrupted. His eyes slid from Bilbo to the dwarves and back again. “Oh, you’re the Took they’re taking, then.” “I had bet on it being Sigismund. Oh well. At least it was only a threepence bet.” He gave a sigh and shook the disappointment from his features. “I’ll bring your tea right away.”

When Bilbo had finished a strong pot of tea and the dwarves their meal, they slapped down six shilling coins between them on the table  to cover their tab with the owner, then made their way around the building to the stables in the rear. There, Nori showed Bilbo to a small brown pony with a shaggy coat and intelligent eyes that swept Bilbo from head to toe and left him feeling as though the creature approved of him, but only just.

“Her name,” the dwarf said, walking around the beast to stand next to Bilbo, “is Myrtle.”

A squirming wriggle-worm of discomfort appeared in his gut. “I’ve had plenty of walking holidays,” he protested, taking a step back and colliding with Dwalin’s large frame. “I’m quite certain I’ll do just fine on foot.”

Without warning, he was hoisted into the air, an undignified squeak erupting from him that started the instant he left the ground and didn’t stop until his behind met the saddle. Bilbo grabbed the saddle horn in a death grip, fearing he might slip off one side or the other.

“Nonsense,” Dwalin replied, throwing Bilbo the reins and then guiding his and Nori’s mounts out of the stall. “We’ll move faster with the ponies. Just squeeze your thighs together and hang on.”

The spring’s chilly breeze dove beneath Bilbo’s cloak and jacket, an arrogant burglar that came to steal away his warmth, replacing it with a layer of gooseflesh. He shivered and pulled his outerwear around him, eyeing the dwarves and wondering how they seemed so at ease with only a thin cloak covering their muscled shoulders. Beneath him, Myrtle was content to move without his instruction, falling into line with his travel companions as they led the way from the Green Dragon Inn and onto the road that would take them out of the Shire.

They continued on for several hours, the road becoming rockier and the gentle rolling hills of the shire bleeding into massive stands of red oak, black cherry and whispering aspens.

At midday, with the sun high above and warming the air, they paused to water the horses. Bilbo slid gracelessly from Myrtle’s back, a groan sneaking past his lips when he found his feet again. He led her to the nearby stream, dropping the reins on the damp shore, allowing her free range to drink and graze. Watching the horse, Bilbo slid his hands toward his thighs to rub the burn from them, only to find that his back was far too stiff and sore to allow such movement. With a frustrated huff, he brought his hands instead to the small of his back, doing his best to massage the knots he found there.

Bilbo moved further up the stream’s bank, finding a soft spot of ground beneath an oak tree and there sitting with his back braced against the thick trunk. Relief groaned from the depths of his soul and, now that he was down, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get back up again.

Slowly lifting his eyes, he startled when a large chunk of _cram_ and dried meat landed in his lap. Nori stood over him blocking the sun, causing him to blink several times, trying to focus his eyes well enough to see the dwarf.

“Bit o’ lunch. Best eat it quick, we leave soon,” the dwarf told him and then walked away.

Bilbo scowled at the dwarf’s retreating form, dragging himself to his feet again. He made his way over to where the dwarves took their repast, lowering himself gingerly to the log on which Nori rested.

“Thank you,” Bilbo mumbled, doing his best to keep the discomfort he felt beneath Nori’s gaze from bleeding into his voice.

“No problem, can’t have ya starvin’ before we get some use out o’ ya, now can we?” Nori replied with a chuckle, shoving a bit of meat into his mouth.

* * *

The hours until they stopped for the night dragged on, and when the call came to halt, Bilbo couldn’t have been happier, scenes of a comfortable bedroll next to the fire flittering through his mind.

Soon a cheery fire was blazing into the night, casting long flickering shadows that danced around the still and stoic ones cast by the trees. Bilbo laid out his bedroll beside the fire, the heat of the flames washing over him, banishing the night’s creeping chill. Conversations around the fire were kept at a minimum, and without any effort at all, sleep slipped over him.

Long after the flames had burned to spent cinders, he was awakened by the sound of a sharp grunt, followed by muffled, murmuring words. His heart gave a quick jolt as he lay silent and unmoving, trying his hardest to figure out what was happening. He turned his head to pinpoint the source of the sound. There, wrapped up by the silvery shadows of the trees, were his dwarven guides, holding each other in an intimate embrace.

Bilbo blushed at the sight of the lovers, heat pooling quickly between his legs, his member thickening as voyeuristic curiosity got the better of him.

Nori lay upon his back, naked knees crooked over his mate’s broad shoulders. His bottom lip was tucked between his teeth, eyes squeezed tight. Small grunts popped out of him while Dwalin fed his cock into him in short, controlled movements. An eternity later, they both sighed, and Dwalin dipped forward, burying his face in the other’s neck.

As he watched the larger dwarf thrust into his mate, he caught a glimpse of Nori’s member, slapping hard and heavy against his belly. Bilbo’s eyes widened at the size of it, shuddering as he imagined such a thick cock pounding into him. The very thought was exciting and terrifying, he was positive that something that size would never fit. As quiet as possible, he turned away, pulling his blanket tighter around him and focusing on keeping his breathing even. After a loud groan from one of the dwarves, the air fell silent.

As soon as he heard the even breathing and occasional snore of the dwarves, Bilbo slid his hand into his trousers, holding his throbbing prick firmly, and closed his eyes.

Sleep was a long time returning to him.

* * *

“No nappin’,” Dwalin boomed, snapping Bilbo out of his doze. He glared at the dwarf debating on whether he should comment on the fact that it was the dwarves fault that he had not had a restful night. Instead he stretched, feeling his spine pop in places, sure that he would never be able to work out the kinks.

“I’m not napping! I’m resting my eyes,” he retorted, lifting his chin in a stubborn fashion, and straightening his posture into an erect, overly dignified position. This earned him laughter from the others.

They plodded along for hours, stopping several times to water the horses and feast on yet more _cram_ and dried meat. Bilbo couldn’t wait for a real meal; images of fried fish, meat pies, scones and tea filling his mind. He could almost taste them. The sound of Dwalin’s voice pulled him from his food themed daydreams.

“You excited to be comin’ home with us,” the dwarf asked, not taking his eyes off the road ahead.

“I think so,” Bilbo said, hesitating for just a moment, “ I just hope I can live up to all your expectations.”

“You’ll do fine lad. Haven’t met one o’ your kind that hasn’t worked hard,” Nori commented, glancing over at him.

“I hope so,” Bilbo said in a low voice.


	6. The First Bond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many, many thanks for all of the wonderful comments that you've given us! Every time we receive a new kudos or comment, we rush to call each other and gush like school girls. This project is for you, our current and future readers. Please, enjoy!
> 
> (P.S.)  
> MsWitchy has successfully moved into her new apartment and is in the process of getting everything unpacked from the move.

# Chapter Five

With the journey from the Shire behind him and the city gates opening before him, Bilbo expected some of the tension in his gut would have subsided by now. Instead, he found himself even more nervous, his stomach twisting and churning, and jarring loose waves of nausea with each of Myrtle’s steps beneath him. His whole body ached from riding the saddle, his feet itching to feel the solid earth and his backside longing for a seat that stayed in one place. He looked to his companions, the two dwarves as comfortable on horseback as they were on foot, trading easy glances with one another and sharing their thoughts, their affection, along the invisible bond connecting them. He sighed, the familiar hollow space behind his chest tugging cruelly at the back of his heart, yearning to be filled by the unbreakable, yet fragile, love he saw between the two of them.

“Do we have much farther?” he asked, turning his gaze forward, picking out the sound of a massive gear being cranked in the distance.

“Anxious to get to work?” Nori inquired, pulling his leather riding gloves tighter around his fingers, a crooked smile lifting his face.

Bilbo suppressed his first response to the question, sensing in it a deeper meaning floating beneath the surface. Every time the man spoke, in fact, he couldn’t help the instinctive suspicion that rose up, warning him to choose his words with care. He gave Nori a sidelong glance, shrugged. “It’ll be nice to get out of the saddle,” he replied, trusting the answer to be innocuous and truthful enough to satisfy him.

The dwarf’s eyebrow twitched in naked amusement, and he pointed ahead. “A few minutes more beyond these gates, through the market place, and we will arrive. I expect there will be quite a congregation of your countrymen at the palace to greet you. There always is when one of you arrives.”

His heart gave an uncomfortable thump that sent a mob of butterflies loose in his innards, their delicate wings shredding his confidence. When hobbits congregate, they expect a speech, and if they were gathering on his behalf, they would expect that speech from him. The panic written clearly on his paled face drew Dwalin’s hand to his shoulder, the man giving him a fatherly pat.

“It’ll be alrigh’, lad,” he assured him. “Jus’ tell ‘em you’re honored ter serve the king an’ tha’ you’re lookin’ forward ter yer duties.”

Bilbo shook his head, eyes wide with the unforeseen terror of public speaking. “I don’t even know what it is I’m supposed to do! How can I look forward to a job that I haven’t been prepared for?”

Dwalin chuckled. “You’ve the easiest job in the realm, lad. You visit with the king on occasion and remind him tha’ he likes ter drink tea. Ne’er did before he met ol’ Otho. ‘Tween you an’ me, I think yer ancestor an’ the king were better friends than bees to a flower,” he added in lower tones. “The king’s a hard man, has ter be too, bu’ you hobbits bring ou’ his gentler side. It’s made him a better ruler.”

Nori looked across Bilbo to his mate. “I wish everyone shared your sentiment, my love,” he said.

“‘Course you don’,” Dwalin replied, “ye’d be outta job an’ have nothin’ to complain abou’ were tha’ the case.”

Bilbo leaned back in the saddle to avoid the verbal teasing between the men, sinking into his own private despair. He had no idea how he was supposed to bring out anyone’s gentler side, let alone a king’s, and found himself wishing he had paid more attention to the stories his Mother had told him as a child, and the times recounted by his Took relatives of their service to King Thorin Oakenshield.

The great city gates protecting the heart of Ered Luin were opened, the passage just wide enough to allow them to ride through it side by side. The dwarf made road had been built atop a sheer cliff overlooking a white water river below, hugging tight to the mountain’s natural curve. Their market place has been carved into the living stone of the earth, sculpted from the granite with such precision that it was difficult to pinpoint the exact place where the market ended and the mountain began. Bilbo’s breath caught on the sight, his jaw hanging slack and his hands releasing their grip on Myrtle’s lead. He knuckled his eyes in disbelief, turning toward Dwalin. “You made all of this in seventy-five years?”

The tattooed dwarf’s booming laughter beat itself upon the air. “‘Course not,” he replied. “The dwarves already livin’ here did. Weren’t no hero’s welcome they gave us neither when we got here. Bu’ it all worked ou’ in tha end.”

Beneath him, the pony sensed her home nearby, offered up an appreciative snort and whicker that echoed in the canyon and was answered by Dwalin and Nori’s mounts. Bilbo grabbed up the reins again as a precautionary measure, though he trusted in his companion’s horses to keep Myrtle from bolting more so than his own equestrian skills. She bobbed her head and gave it a shake at the renewed pressure of Bilbo’s guidance but complied with his wishes nonetheless, side stepping closer to the others and giving him leave to marvel without worry.

Blacksmiths pounded out tools and equipment beneath open air forges, four dwarves per anvil swinging heavy hammers down upon glowing red metal, filling the air with an iron tone drumbeat. Bakers strolled along the avenues that led into the heart of the mountain and along the passing crossroads, hawking trays of fresh from the oven pies, steaming loaves of bread, succulent confections and sweet deserts. Children chased metal hoops down the road, laughing and jeering at one another, oblivious to the irritated admonitions of the adults around them. Bilbo saw a group of fair skinned elves conversing with a man; watched a couple of dwarves guiding a few of his hobbit countrymen into a pub for a midday drink.

His stunned silence followed him all the way along the main thoroughfare and through a second set of gates that defied gravity in their height, thrown open to reveal the outer courtyard and façade of the royal residence set into the mountain. He swallowed, a chill racing up his spine, his eyes lingering on the menacing scowls of the stone hewn guardians carved on either side of the palace entrance, their rocky battle axes ready to be called into service to protect the city held beneath their lifeless gaze.

A stable hand took the lead from him as he dismounted, helped him to untie his pack from Myrtle’s back and then led the horse away.  His feet sighed with relief at the touch of the stony earth beneath them, drawing up the strength of the mountains to suffuse his aching body with renewed vigor. Bilbo slipped the travel pack over his shoulders, moved to stand beside Dwalin. Nori greeted another dwarf  with an intricately braided beard, decorated with shimmering beads, the Master Spy taking him into his embrace and head-butting him none too gently, both laughing as though they had not just cracked their skulls upon one another.

Dwalin’s posture was rigid, his arms crossed in front of his chest while he watched his Soulmate and the other dwarf exchange friendly gurgles in _Khuzdul_. He softened his gaze when he looked to Bilbo. “Tha’s Gloin,” he grunted, “One o’ my men. Old friend o’ my Mate’s too,” he added.

Bilbo thought he caught the ragged edge of jealousy in Dwalin’s tone, but left it unmentioned, nodding instead and committing the man’s name to his memory. He spied a small group of hobbits making their way from the palace doors and took a breath, forcing a smile onto his face. “My greeting party,” he said to no one in particular.

* * *

The doors leading into Throne Room groaned as they were opened from the inside, the small group of hobbits that surrounded Bilbo and flanked by Dwalin and Gloin on either side, moved through them and into the cavernous space. Beneath their feet, an aisle had been marked out in the stone floor by a darker shade of polished granite that reflected Bilbo’s image back up at him.

Every shape and color of dwarf imaginable gathered on each side of the long aisle, gazes turned to them to follow their progress, muttering to one another in their Dwarfish tongue. The marble carved throne stood at the very end of the aisle upon a raised dais, a massive outcropping of mountain stone hanging over it from the soaring ceiling above. Thorin Oakenshield, King of the Blue Mountains, held himself upon it with a regally erect posture, his saturnine face turned to an almost beardless youth to his right, speaking aside to him. The dark, ermine mantled cloak on his shoulders had been thrown open around him, draping the arms of his throne and giving his form greater definition against the black material.

Bilbo’s body responded with appreciation at the sight of the dwarf king, a low burning ember quivered in his loins to send a hot ache of sensation that pulsed through nerve endings to pool just behind his navel. His cheeks prickled with the warmth climbing his skin, eyes growing wide to soak in the vision of the man, etching into his memory each muscled line and flowing curve.

The King turned his gaze to Bilbo, piercing sapphire eyes meeting glittering emerald orbs, Thorin nodding to him as he approached, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. Then, without warning, the world descended into an unfathomable darkness, filled by screams ripping from Bilbo’s throat. The solid stone walkway rose up to crash against his knees and the heels of his hands, the dull discomfort barely registering amid the torture cleaving away at the flesh of his arm, his Soulmark scoring itself upon him.

It was unlike any other pain he had ever known. A thousand points of hot, searing light dragged across his skin, consuming his awareness. His nose expected the scent of burning bone and stinking smoke, his lungs believed they should be struggling to expel freezing water, his eyes thought they should find themselves rolling like marbles on the floor. Yet the deep awareness of instinct told him not to panic, guiding him through the process of drawing in each breath, of focusing his mind on the feeling of cool and comforting stone pressing against his cheek and the slick damp of sweat beading on his brow.

All of his attention turned to his breath and that became his world; an eternity of existence lived completely by the command to draw air in, hold it, and then expel it.

In. Out...

He was a ship on a tempest tossed sea and he was its captain, directing it into the headwinds and bellowing a dare at the storm.

In. Out...

He was an ivy vine coiling up a wall, penetrating the masonry with countless green barbs, each stab into brick and binder an orgiastic climax that made him expel his pollen.

In. Out...

He was a hobbit, lying on the stone floor, surrounded by dwarven boots and bare hobbit feet.

“Bilbo!” Dwalin’s gravelly voice pulled him out of the hellish darkness, the world snapping back into place around him. Rough hands caught him up under the arms, lifting him to his feet. Dwarves and hobbits continued descending upon the scene, worried voices and concerned looks an oppressive weight threatening to shatter his tenuous grasp on consciousness and send him reeling back to the floor.

He clawed at the shirtsleeve covering his right arm, unable to bear the weight of it against him. The fabric ripped away at the seam of the shoulder, slid over his wrist and fell in a heap onto the floor. There on his arm, hazy blue lines froze into solid geometric shapes and patterns. He blinked at the sight, dizziness sweeping over him as he realized that his Soulmate was a dwarf. His legs threatened to give out, Dwalin grunting with the effort of keeping him upright.

  He cast his eyes around the space, searching out among the crush of bodies descending upon him to offer him aid, looking for the One.

Thorin looked back, his jaw tight, clutching his arm. He  let it fall from his grasp as he rose, held it stiffly at his side.

“Get him out of here!” the king bellowed, calling everyone’s attention back to himself.


	7. Side Effect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all of the wonderful feedback! 
> 
> Remember, we post every Monday at 5pm Pacific (17:00 -8 GMT).
> 
> Happy Holidays!

# Chapter Six

His heart beating the panic of a wild bird suddenly caged against the underside of his breastbone, Thorin’s gaze travelled down the length of his outstretched left arm and the extended finger pointed at the hobbit. He felt every face in the court turned in his direction; saw their expressions of curiosity. A few had even dared to frown, sharing their outright shock and dismay with his command. But there was only face among the crowd that concerned him. One perfect countenance screwed up in pain as his heart shattered again and again beneath Thorin’s gaze.

The order had been a reaction to the blinding pain dashing beneath his sleeve, hotter than an iron brand and sharper than a tattoos needle. It had been panicked and fearful, and though no one would mention it, everyone in the court had heard the jitter in his voice. The hobbit had, by his presence in the chamber, worked that weakness of Thorin’s character and, if any of his enemies caught wind of it, his reign would end shortly thereafter. If he wanted to hold the throne, there could be no other option: Thorin would have to be Craftwed. He would not be the pawn of his rival’s machinations; not have his strength or character called into question by being Soulmated with a soft, weak hobbit!

He lowered his arm, held it stiffly at his side to match the other and flicked his gaze to Gloin. The dwarf who served him as bodyguard in Dwalin’s absence hovered at the edge of the knot of people surrounding the Halfling, one hand poised on the hilt of his short sword, the other wrapping around the shoulder of the man in front of him. He met Thorin’s gaze, eyebrows disappearing into his hairline, his form locked in the pose of a soldier not sure that he had heard his orders clearly. A silent form of communication conducted wholly in that glanced passed between them. Thorin’s directive to remove the hobbit was confirmed with a barely perceptible jerk of the head. His guard nodded and pushed his way through to stand at Dwalin’s side, the tattooed dwarf holding the hobbit up. In the instant that followed Gloin laid hands on him, the silence broke as the entourage of hobbits raised their voices in outraged protest.

“Majesty, please,” one of the hobbits said, louder than the others. He was a rotund little thing, dressed gaily for the occasion in a fire red vest over a powder blue blouse. “A dwarf is his Soulmate! Do not send Bilbo away before his Soulmate is known.”

A small spark of relief washed over the king. He had done his best to hide his reaction to being Soulmarked, and had feared that he had not hid it well enough. Thorin eased himself back onto the throne, looked down upon the one who had addressed him.

“If he has been Soulmated with a dwarf,” Thorin replied, his voice calmer, smoother, “then it is clear that dwarf is not interested.”

A deep, yawing ache rippled through Thorin’s chest at those words, the foreign emotion sliding along the invisible empathic bond between himself and the hobbit. His will was stronger though. He clamped down tight on that soulful pang, wrapping it up in dark muslin cloth and shoving it to the back of his awareness.

Bilbo slumped against Dwalin and Gloin, bright sparkling tears streaming in silent despair from his extraordinary green eyes. The struggle not to run to him, to stay rooted firmly to the marble carved throne beneath him, sapped Thorin of his strength. Desire’s siren song swam in the empty spaces of his body, beckoning him to give in to it; to love the hobbit with everything he had. It would be so easy to let go and push forward, scooping the frail little creature up into his arms and hold him like the most precious of jewels. But it was too late for that now. Thorin’s course had been set.

“Order the dwarf forward!” the hobbit man in the red vest demanded. “Let them explain why they are willing to let…”

“Be silent!” Thorin cut him off. He cast a quick glance to the guards stationed nearby, waved them forward. “Guards, clear the court,” he said, standing. “And bar this one from the palace,” he added, gesturing toward the hobbit spokesman.

There was no confusion in that order. A massive living wall of dwarves in palace livery strung across the chamber and pushed forward, boots thundering in a well-timed march, catching everyone up in their movement and steering them toward the door. He watched Dwalin hand Bilbo over to Gloin, and then push his way through the crush of bodies and soldiers to approach the throne.

Thorin held up a hand, stopping him. “See to the Court’s dismissal. I’m returning to my rooms, and I expect no interruptions for the remainder of the day. No one, Dwalin. See to it.” he added for emphasis, glaring down at the tattooed dwarf, impressing the seriousness of that directive. Dwalin dipped him a hesitant bow, turned on his heel, and then moved to accompany his men.

* * *

“Majesty!” Gilium cried out in a startled squeak as Throin pushed open the doors to his chamber. His attendant had been organizing the papers on the desk, stacking them in neat piles for the king’s perusal at a later time.

Thorin closed the door behind him, the heaviness of his dress armor weighing heavy on his body. He was so fatigued that he didn’t have the heart to reprimand the dwarf youth for meddling with the documents. Instead, he called him forward with a weak wave, holding the armor ties out for unknotting.

“I didn’t expect you back so early, Majesty,” Gilium said, getting to work on untying the knots and pulling the separate sections of the armor away from Thorin’s arms, his dexterous fingers moving rapidly in their course. “Was there a problem?”

Thorin grunted out a satisfied sigh as his limbs were freed of the extra weight and shook his head in reply. “No problem.” He rested his fists on his hips, breathing in the youth’s subtle scent as he stepped into Thorin’s intimate space to release the bindings along his ribs that kept the breastplate in place. “The new hobbit arrived,” he continued.

Gilium removed the breastplate, settling it on a nearby stand and then kneeled before Thorin to release the shin guards from their connections. His fingers worked much slower, drawing Thorin’s gaze to him. He found the youth with a tilted head, chewing on his cheek, clearly wanting to say something but holding himself back.

The king combed his fingers through the youth’s short hair. “Speak, boy,” he said in a kindly tone, petting him. In the short week since his arrival, his hair had not grown as much as Thorin thought it would have, and remained delicately thin, leaving the king to wonder if his treatment in early childhood had in some way retarded his body’s ability to produce the thick, coarse hair that was common among dwarves.

Gilium flushed and pulled the first shin guard away, leaving it on the ground beside him. “Forgive me, Majesty,” he mumbled. “You are my Lord and I have no right to be…jealous.” The second shin guard was released and settled on top of the other. Rather than moving away to store the battle armor, he remained there on his knees, gently stroking the material covering Thorin’s leg with downcast eyes.

Thorin’s brows pinched together, the corners of his mouth tugging down. “Jealous? Why would the arrival of a hobbit make you jealous?”

The boy squirmed a little, blushed a deeper red. “It’s—it’s silly, Majesty. I am only a sla…servant. I’m not smart enough to understand why the hobbits bring you such…” he glanced up, eyes sparkling, pink tongue darting out to wet his lips, “pleasure.” He looked down again, shrugging.

Thorin’s stance softened. For as long as he had employed the hobbits, there had been rumors of inappropriate relationships with them. He was a king after all, and such gossip served to bring him off of the lofty pedestal and back down to the level of the commoner. Grinning, he ruffled Gillium’s hair and stepped away, heading toward his chair beside the fireplace and there, sinking into it.

He picked up his book and opened it. “There’s no reason to be jealous,” he said, flipping through the pages, looking for the paragraph he had last read, “the hobbits are an amusing people and I enjoy being friendly with them. But I doubt there’s any hobbit alive that could give me…” he looked to Gilium and winked at him, “pleasure.”

The boy’s face brightened. He gathered up the discarded dress armor into his arms and disappeared into the bed chamber closet to put them away.

Finding the place where he had left off, Thorin read the first sentence. Then, without warning, another pulse of despair that did not belong to him ravaged his heart with bloodied talons. He winced, drawing in a deep breath and letting it go again in a sharp huff that blew across the pages of the book. He closed his eyes, sitting back against the chair, riding the wave of agony as it crashed through the dark places inside of him, touching the shores of fear and islands of terror; the memories of loss and charred flesh carrying him away.

Bilbo’s face filled his inner vision then, and the storm died down. The hobbit was smiling, his dark curls swaying in a summer breeze that whispered against his naked chest. Thorin’s body responded to the unbidden fantasy. Tension filled his kingly cock as it lengthened along the inseam of his trousers and thickened against his thigh, making the cloth bulge and grow uncomfortable. A warm tingle brushed against the hairs lining his scrotum, the heavy sack pulling tighter against his body. In the real world, his hand wandered along his thigh, fingers curling around the outer edge of the hiding swollen member, squeezing and stroking toward the prominent knob end. It flexed against his palm, hot pleasure tracing out a bright route from tip to base that pooled in the space between his legs.

“No!” he gasped at himself, forcing his eyelids up and opening them as wide as they could go to banish the half-dream. He was going to Craftwed! Exploring the hobbit, even in his imagination, would make that impossible. He tossed the book aside and, shaking his head free of the erotic vision, made his way into the bed chamber for a well deserved nap.

Gilium pulled the closet door closed as Thorin lay upon the bed, the youth turning at the sound of the mattress groaning beneath the king’s weight. He had flung one of Thorin’s robes over his shoulder, the garment made of a thin linen material that Thorin wore after bathing.

“I felt you might enjoy a soak, Majesty,” he said by way of explanation, approaching the foot of the bed, “to ease your stresses.” His gaze flicked from the level of Thorin’s chin to the disturbance between the king’s legs and lingered there for a long moment, seeming to soak in the sight of it as a starving man watched a feast being set out on a table. The muscles of his throat worked up and down as he swallowed.

Thorin waved the offer away. “Later, perhaps,” he replied and linked his fingers between the pillow and his head, closing his eyes. He listened as Gilium returned the robe to the closet, pulled the door gently shut again and crept toward the other side of the bed. It moved a little, jostling against Thorin, as the youth climbed in alongside him, and settled his cheek to Thorin’s chest. He wrapped an arm around Gilium, fingers slipping beneath the boy’s loosened trousers and filling his palm with the round globes of his ass.

The youth let out a husky, wanton groan, arching his back at Thorin’s touch and pushing himself against the king. His nose found its way to the crook of Thorin’s neck, his soft, moist lips pressing to the skin. He kissed his way up to the sensitive lobe of the king’s ear and pulled it between his teeth, hot breath whispering along the inner shell and sending goosebumps to the back of Thorin’s neck, squeezing out a pleasured sigh from his chest.

Bilbo filled his inner eye once more, small hobbit body pressing to him as Gilium’s did in the real world, lips dancing across his cheek to press a hesitant kiss to his mouth. Thorin wrapped his arms around him fully, drinking thirstily of the kiss and grinding his hips upward while his hands pushed the hobbit’s trousers down. Fingers worked open his own clothing, reached between his legs to expose his cock to the air a brief instant before it was swallowed up by an experienced grip that sent shudders through his body.

The kiss broke and was followed by the sound of spit being delivered to an open palm; slick wet applied then to his aching member. He opened his eyes, saw Gilium on top of him and frowned, the tension in his cock pulling back in disappointment.

“My Majesty’s nerves are frayed indeed,” Gilium murmured as Thorin’s cock softened in his hand. He smiled. “I will work to make my Lord’s love hard again, if he wishes…”

The king nodded, closed his eyes again as the youth climbed down his body. It took him half of a heartbeat to find the image of the hobbit once more, grunted aloud as his prick was sucked between tight lips and an expert tongue twirled around the head and then flittered along the hole, making it weep as renewed vigor pumped its way into the shaft.

“Thank you, Majesty,” the image of Bilbo said in Gilium’s voice. The vision fluttered for a moment, going dark and then suddenly brightening with full color and sensation as he felt the knob end of his member being swallowed by an even tighter orifice and a pained noise filling his ears. His hips gave a hard thrust upward, spearing all of himself into the vice-like embrace to the root. A strong surge of triumph rolled through him as he forcefully occupied the hole, his lips spreading to a full smile that let out only the slightest sigh of relief.

“My Majesty’s love is thick!” Bilbo said in Gilium’s voice again, the edge of it whining with hot desire.

“You’ll get used to it,” Thorin murmured affectionately at the hobbit-vision, holding himself still while the muscular ring gripping him fluttered in slow compliance. “You’ll be riding it the rest of your life, after all.”

“Yes, Majesty.”


End file.
